


Wish me luck ...

by orphan_account



Series: Through all of Time [9]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>VIOLENT!    Not quite the same relationship but still the boys ... another time, another place, another historical</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish me luck ...

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece is taken from "Wish me luck as you wave me Goodbye", one of those cheery tunes with which men were sent off to die. That particular one was from WW2 but seemed apt.

“Alright, men, five minutes to the off. Smoke will be laid down and then, on the whistle, over the top. To your positions now. Good luck.”

 

The upper-class accent grated on the ears of most of the soldiers, cowering in the muddy trench, half-filled with water. They were working men, culled from the industrial cities of the North and shipped over to this living hell at the whim of “good chaps” like Captain Hathaway.

 

Sgt. Lewis moved down the lines, giving a pat on the back here, a word of encouragement there and a stern warning to any man looking as if he might “rabbit”. ‘Rabbit in a lamp’ was the expression they used to describe a man frozen with fear who suddenly refused to obey.

 

Bloody hell but they were sending him babies to work with, both the men and that snotty git he’d been carrying since his arrival three months ago. Officers, he thought, spitting grit out into the water that came up to his calves, what the hell use were they? Who did all the work around here?

 

The whistle sounded and Sgt. Lewis glanced to his right. The stupid kid was going to go first. He shot out an arm and grabbed the back of the Captain’s collar, for which he could be up on a charge if the officer chose.

 

“No, Sir. Not yet. Hold back, you don’t go first. You go after me, remember?” The long pale face turned to him and Sgt. Lewis momentarily felt sorry for him. Yes, he was a kid, not long out of school and he was just as scared as the men, only he’d been trained to hide it. Was that brandy he smelt on the lad’s breath? Couldn’t blame him, he was younger than Sgt. Lewis’ own son, shouldn’t be in charge of a Sunday School Outing, never mind a company of troops.

 

“Thank you, Sgt.” Poor sod was grateful.

 

“Come on then, Sir, I’m going up now, you follow behind me and stay behind me – understand?” The young man just nodded, shaking slightly. He hadn’t a bloody clue. He’d be the next one to crack-up, go shellie. That was what they called it now, Sgt. Lewis thought as he scaled up the slippery ladder to the top of the trench – shell shock, not just losing yer bloody mind with fear.

 

The smoke was thick and covering them nicely, Jerry would be firing blind, so Sgt. Lewis started to trot forward, rifle with bayonet fixed held at waist-height, crouching to keep low to the ground. He glanced back. Oh for God’s sake, the boy looked like he was out for a stroll in the park.

 

“Get low, Sir. Keep your head down,” he called, not adding “you stupid git.”

 

A shell exploded right in front of him, making a crater into which he fell, his leg on fire and the breath knocked out of him. Face-down in the mud, he scrabbled to roll over, not wanting to suffocate and wondering why he wasn’t screaming because the pain was unbearable.

 

Seconds later another body landed in the crater beside him but Sgt. Lewis couldn’t see anything because his helmet had skewed down over his eyes.

 

“Sergeant! Sgt. Lewis!” Oh God it was the boy, the officer. He was lifting the helmet up and peering down at him, and kneeling up, the idiot.

 

“Get down, Sir.” He managed to groan. “Get back to the line or push on. Don’t stay here with me, keep moving.”

 

“I can’t leave you Sergeant. I can’t.” The pain was making Sgt. Lewis hazy. He was going to pass out and he didn’t even know how badly he was hurt. The Captain was shouting, smacking him on the chest.

 

“Don’t die. Don’t bloody die, you bastard! I can’t do this on my own. I need you with me, Sergeant. Don’t die!”

 

Nearly unconscious, Sgt. Lewis was drifting. Was that his son? How had he got here? The sergeant held out an arm, poor lad, probably had a nightmare again.

 

“Come here, lad, It’s alright, come here.” He held the boy’s head against his chest, patting his back and listening to the “don’t die” litany he was sobbing.

 

The shelling had stopped and the Captain leapt to his feet screaming “Stretcher bearers! Over here, stretcher bearers!” Then he dropped back to his knees to curl up over the wounded man, still weeping and begging him not to die.

 

Faith, Hope and Charity was the collective name for the three Quakers who’d refused the call-up but had volunteered as medical orderlies. Despite the banter, they had enormous respect from the soldiers because they put themselves into extreme danger to bring back wounded men. The faster they could recuperate them, the less chance of gangrene and death.

 

Sgt. Lewis was man-handled out of the crater, finally finding the screams that had been lodged in his chest as his shrapnel-filled leg was dragged over the ground. Once on the stretcher, two carried him while the third ran behind holding the Red Cross flag that should protect them from snipers. Captain Hathaway jogged beside Sgt. Lewis, digging out his hip-flask and holding it to his lips to give him a nip of brandy.

 

Being slid down into the trench caused Sgt. Lewis even more pain. His damaged leg hit the ground and sent spears of agony up his body. He was screaming almost constantly as he was moved along to the medical station, the horse-drawn cart jolting and bouncing down the rutted road.

 

In a haze of morphine, two days’ later, Sgt. Lewis had a visitor. Captain Hathaway shook his hand and sat by the bed.

 

“So, back to Blighty for you, Sergeant.” He said with forced cheerfulness.

 

“Yes, Sir, less one leg but still alive.”

 

“That’s the main thing, Sergeant.”

 

There was a silence. Neither man had anything to say or couldn’t find the words.

 

The Captain stood up and held out his hand.

 

“Well, best be off. Good luck, Sergeant.”

 

“Goodbye, Sir.”

 

The officer turned to walk away and then hesitated, turned back and said.

 

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. In the crater, you know …”

 

“That’s alright, Sir. Just keep your head down in future eh?”

 

“You won’t, you know..”

 

“I won’t tell anyone, Sir.”

 

“Thank you, Sergeant.” The handshake this time was more firm and continued slightly longer than it should have done, then the Captain turned and walked out of the hospital ward, ramrod straight.

 

“Poor little sod,” Sgt. Lewis thought. “He’ll be the next one – a shellie for sure.”


End file.
